Gone Baby Gone
by It'sTimeToDance
Summary: Kidnapped. And on such a nice day, too.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: Should I really be starting another story? Probably not. But I'm bored, I'm into the whole **_**lost and found **_**thing lately. I was going to do it with Supernatural, but I couldn't figure out how to do it without being gimmicky. So, we're left here. Back to the Outsiders. _Stay gold, Ponyboy! _and all that.**

**Reviews are pivvitol, people.**

--gone baby gone--

(prologue)

_Gone going  
Gone everything  
Gone give a damn  
Gone be the birds when they don't want to sing  
Gone people_

-"Gone," Jack Johnson

The sun was setting over Tulsa, Oklahoma.

And that's what he thought of, always, when he looked back on that last week, that last day, that last minute. That's what Ponyboy Curtis was thinking of when he thought of walking home that day. He thought of the sunset, and he thought of the orange color of the sky and he thought of the soft blow of the wind on his back and he thought of the faint smell of car exhaust. When he was alone, huddled in a corner, shivering and coughing and hating his life, he thought of that sunset that one last day.

But never of anything else. Just the sunset.

So, it was a nice day, to say the least.

He woke early, he looked out the window, and had that feeling. It would be a good day, he would think. He laughs, now. He laughs at the thought.

He got up, played some football with Soda and Darry and Two-Bit, then he and Johnny saw a movie, then he and Johnny walked around, saw the Shepards. He and and Johnny walked to the park, and Johnny said he had to go. And Pony started home, smiling through his Kools and thinking about _how good a day it was._

And then he remembered, very vaguely, the car with the dark, dark windows and the screeching of tires. Then he remembered thinking it was just some Socs giving him a hard time. Then he saw it was an old guy, no better dressed then Pony himself. And then he saw the gun, and Socs never pulled guns.

And then he started off as the door opened and then he fell because _something hit his head _and then he had screamed--man, had he screamed--and then he felt another hit across the temple and a hand clamped across his mouth and he didn't remember anything anymore.

_

* * *

_

********


	2. Chapter 2

--gone baby gone--

(chapter two)

_Angie: I don't wanna find a kid after they've been abused for three years_

_Patrick: Hon, nobody does_

--from _Gone Baby Gone_

"Hey Darry?"

"Yep?"

"You know those kids who get kidnapped all the time?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm not gonna get kidnapped too, am I?"

"Don't be stupid, Pony."

"I'm serious."

(pause)

"No, I'd never let that happen."

xXxXx

Sodapop flung his shirt over his shoulder and buttoned it as he stumbled out the door. "Goin' to work."

Two-Bit, still dozing on the couch, grunted. "Be nice to the other kids, sweetums."

Already late, all Soda could do was mumble a half-hearted curse and run to the car parked outside, Steve's hand waving impatiently out the driver's side window.

He climbed in, and the car was practically running before he closed the door.

Summer had been out for a month, and car failures were at a premium here in Tulsa. So Steve drove fast, eager for his overtime.

Soda yawned and blinked at the windshields. "You coulda knocked. On the _door. _You know, that thing people use to keep other people outta their space?"

Steve had, if it matters, ran into the Curtis house quickly and shook Soda until he fell from the bed and tumbled to the floor. He then promptly ran back to the car and honked the horn for ten minutes.

Two-Bit, Soda thought with dismay, slept through it all.

"Overrated," Steve mumbled, jerking the wheel rather sloppily as a Stop sign appeared on the curb.

By some grace of God, they made it too the DX with all their appendages. Barely.

A line of cars, both shining and rusted, had formed at the garage. Steve grinned like he was the luckiest guy in the world. "I smell a raise, ol' buddy."

Soda kicked open the passenger's side and squinted at the line through the morning sun. "Naw, that's just you."

And, all day, he _tried _not to think about what day it was.

xXxXx

The thing about Tulsa was that you could be gone for years, but you'll always know where everything is.

It could be because nothing ever changes in small towns like this, that it's a place so dirty and low priority that it's all but forgotten, and no one with the means to change anything even knows what state it's in. But I _liked _to think, _liked, _that it's because my feet can trail these streets like they were born to walk them. That in the eleven years I had spent growing in this asshole of a landscape I had someone become apart of it.

Anyway, it's a nice idea.

My shirt is clinging real close to my skin, now, and the sun feels like it's shining right at me. Like a sadistic kind of spotlight. Or something.

But still, it was nice to be back. It would _also _be nice if I could stay.

I thought about it. I thought about just breaking into a sprint (and, man, can I sprint) and run and run and run until everything was back like it was, turn time around, make things normal and painless and peaceful. Like it used to be. Even with the Socs, it'd be great. I could play football again and I could see movies again and I could laugh and smile and _exist _again.

I could go back.

But that'd be stupid.

So, so stupid.

The few cents I had jangling in my pocket felt real heavy, all of a sudden. Like it was trying to make me thing I had more then I did, that I had enough to live on, enough to _run. _Money's a sadistic bastard that way.

Still, at least I had enough for a coke.

I ducked my head low, trying to keep the sun from my face as I found a DX and walked inside.

xXxXx

"You know what day it is, Steve?"

They'd been on their break, flicking cigarettes on the sidewalk and sipping at watered down beers in the back of the gas station, sweat dripping down their backs. The sound of engines revving away from the gas tanks and down the road had been the only sound. Steve glanced at Soda with little comprehension. He did not respond.

"It's July twenty-second," Soda answered, glaring at the distance and leaning back against the brick, chipped wall behind him.

Steve swallowed a gulp of beer and resisted a sigh. "Yep."

"You know what that means?"

Soda knew Steve knew what it meant, and Steve in return did not answer. They both knew. Soda just wanted someone to say it with him.

"That means," Soda said quietly, almost dangerously, as though just the sound of it in his throat could make him break something, "Ponyboy Curtis is fourteen years old today."

Steve said nothing.

Soda swallowed another mouthful of beer with a still unchanging expression, and Steve knew where this would lead.

Soda knew.

Fuck it, anyone in a five mile radios probably knew.

"And," he continued, "it means that Ponyboy Curtis is two years away from his first driving lesson."

"Jesus, Soda," Steve sighed, dropping his smoke to the ground and stomping on it, though it was still reasonably long. "Don't start."

Soda chewed at his own cigarette, shifting it between his teeth for a moment before finally taking it out and breathing a cloud of grey smoke. It floats slowly, at a sloths pace, into the air.

So slow, so cold.

Everything seems cold these days.

"Why not?" he ask, though he doesn't expect an answer. "Why shouldn't I _start? _Wouldn't Pony _want _us to _start?" _There is an ironic edge to his voice that has seemed to grow over the years, a bitter tone that cuts into you like a knife.

Steve does not bother with an answer because, again, Soda doesn't want one. All his questions are for the benefit of sharing his misery, making everyone feel his pain exactly as he feels it. It was his way in making himself feel as though he is not alone in this long, slow, _cold _torture. That others are wishing for the same thing as him, no matter how different their reasons are. He wants to feel the terrible ache around him, floating alongside the air he breathed. He would take nothing less.

So, Steve excused him.

"You know what he's probably doing right now?" Soda asked.

This time, just to switch things up, Steve responded. "What?"

Soda coughed a bitter sort of laugh, terrible and ironic. "Wondering why I ain't lookin' for him."

* * *

**A/N I think a rather nice tone-setter, don't you think? Maybe a little overdone on the angst...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Gone Baby Gone**

(chapter three)

_Can you hear me cry out to you?  
words I thought I'd choke on  
Figure out  
I'm really not so with you anymore  
I'm just a ghost_

-"This is How I Disappear," My Chemical Romance

_three years ago (ponyboy)_

The countryside passed in a blur.

"How old're you, kid?"

The man wasn't that old, not as old as he seemed before. Ponyboy thought he was thirty, even barely forty. His hair was neatly trimmed, cut close to his head getting thinner at the center. He didn't have any beards or scars or nothing that'd make you look at him any more then you had to. Plain face, plain build. Just very, very plain.

Except his voice. His voice sounded like he was talking through rocks.

Ponyboy sat very, very stiff, leaning against the door as hard as he could, praying that maybe, just _maybe, _it would snap open and he'd go Superman dive onto the road and run back the--what? three thousand miles--back to Tulsa. As far away from this man as possible.

"Hey," he said. "Hey, you awake?"

Refusing to budge, Ponyboy remained quiet.

Through the corner of his eye, he could see the man get real stiff, clutching the wheel like he was trying to break it. His jaw was squared.

"Kid," he said, dangerously low, "don't make me ask twice."

And, before he thought about it, Ponyboy said, "Fuck you."

The car swerved dangerously through the next lane, snapping to the side and narrowly avoiding the trees at the side of the road and the man slammed his foot into the brakes. The car tipped on one side for a moment before falling back on all fours. Ponyboy clutched his his seat belt, panting and gasping and staring wide-eyed out the windshield. For the first time in four days, he noticed they had been travelling empty roads.

Before he knew what was happening, a pair of iron fist were pressed down on his arms, painfully pinning him to the passenger side door. His head cracked against the window at the movement, and colors flashed across his vision.

Cold, manic green eyes stared back at him.

"_You fucking answer me when I talk to you, boy."_

The hands clutched tighter around Ponyboy's arms, and a scream caught in his throat that he wasn't sure he could hold in.

The man's teeth were bared like a rabbid animals, and his nostrils were flared. Pony couldn't look at anything but his horribly savage eyes.

"You understand me?" he hissed. _"Do you?"_

Desperate as he felt the man's fingernails dig deep into his skin, he nodded. Nodded so hard he was afraid his head might fall off. _Get off get off get off--_

"How the _fuck _old are you?" the man asked, his mouth so close to Pony's face he could feel his breath on his skin.

For a moment, he couldn't talk, simply afraid the scream he'd been holding back might answer instead. But the man shook him again, making his head thrash against the window once more.

In a daze, he answered in a pathetically small voice, "Eleven."

The man sniffed, and seemed to ease back, and Pony visibly relaxed.

The man eyed Pony like a guy appraising a car, looking at him for seemingly the first time. His nose twitched like he was gonna sneeze. "What's your name?"

_Get off get off get off _"Ponyboy."

Now, the man snorted, and Pony couldn't be sure this was a good thing. "Are you kidding me?"

Pony shook his head.

"Seriously, kid." The man looked less amused, but no longer in a state of cold fury. "What's your name?"

"It's Ponyboy," he said again, louder this time. "Says so on my birth certificate."

The man was now completely seated on his side, and Ponyboy was able to sit up straight and lean back against the car door without bashing his head against the window. There was a long, tense silence before the man snorted again, and his lips twitched as he started up the car again. "Your daddy must've been something else, kid."

And the car was on the road again, and Pony was left shaking in his seat and wishing more then anything that Darry was griping at him to do his homework.

xXxXx

_tulsa (now)_

I stepped into the DX and already enjoying the air conditioning before I saw him.

Steve Randal hadn't changed since he was thirteen (almost fourteen, he had never failed to remind us), still big and swaggering and always looking like he was laughing at you. He came from outside alone, with a half empty beer bottle in one hand and a greasy dishrag in the other. He had something like a scowl on his face, like he'd just put something bad in his mouth and the taste was still lingering.

For a second, only a second, I wanted to give him a hug. Steve fucking Randal, just run up to him and wrap my arms around him and just fucking _cry. _Cry like a big _fucking_ baby. Cry like I've been wanting to for who knows how long. Because there he was, there he was, _there he was. _Just like he'd always been, and him being here meant everybody else was here, somewhere close and so close and close enough to see and hear and feel, and _damnit there he was._

Woudl he recognise me? Would he even know who I was? Would he care?

God, I start thinking, _there he fucking is!_

I'm so relieved and choked up and wobbly I'm afraid I'll pass out, and I lean against one of the shelves (stocking candy bars and gum packets, if it matters.)

But then, I think of something that makes me want to cry harder.

_----and he's looking like he's gonna bust a gut, with his veins popping outta his skin like big fat worms and his face as red as a beet. He gripped Ponyboy tightly around the arms and smashed him again and agian and again into the motel wall until little bits of plaster started falling over his hair. "They don't even give a fuck about you, fucking little shit!"_

_Ponyboy saw colors and spots and faces fly across his vision, and any scream he could find in him was caught deep down in his throat, in his chest, in his gut where he couldn't seem to reach it. His ears were ringing._

_"Shut your _fucking _mouth and be grateful I don't kill you. Be grateful I don't _fucking _kill you and kill all'a them and make you fucking watch. Be glad I don't _fucking _kill you!"_

_A sort of gasping yelp escapes the pits of Pony's burning stomach as he's tossed to the ground at the man's feet, his head bouncing off the cheap rug and rolling on his neck. _

_"You think they'd even take you back? You even think for a _second _I wouldn't kill them if they did? You _think?"

_He lifts his foot--_

I wonder if he saw me yet, as I'm wondering the aisles with my head ducked low. My hair is long, falling down in my face in clumpy, greasy tufts with hints of faded bleach at the end pieces. That guy stopped dying it months ago, but the remnants still lingered like a constant reminder of just how fucking _bad _I looked as a blond.

Still, it was more or less the same color it had been.

But it wasn't pinned down like it had been, wasn't greased back and combed to perfection, hung in his face like those hippie bums hanging around California--

And now I'm thinking of the guy and how we have to go back to California 'cause he has to talk to a friend of his--

and I'm leaving soon--

and I shouldn't be here--

and I'm gonna get all of us killed--

and he wasn't bluffing when he says these kinda things--

he wasn't--

I know it--

I can tell--

he'll do it--

he'll really do it--

I know it.

xXxXx

_tulsa, elsewhere (darry)_

Your sitting on a workbench picking at your lunch when you realize.

And, damn, does it hit you.

Cause you look at the car calender hanging on the wall with the girls sitting on the hoods of a bunch of shiny Mustangs and Corvets, and the date is the one after the last to be crossed off and it feels like someone took a hammer to your heart and squashed it to the back of your ribs.

_Oh._

And now you think, _of course. _Because Soda was such a little brat this morning, spilling the milk all over the counter glaring hard at you like everything wrong with the world was _your _fault. As you were wiping it up, in fact, the glass rolled over the edge and shattered. "Nice one, Darry," Soda had said bitterly.

_Your _fault, damnit.

_Your _fault.

Everything.

So, you sit down and stare at the calender like the rest of the guys, getting their laughs at the pictures of the girls on the cars and thinking that your some kind of creep for just sitting there and looking like a lost puppy.

Maybe you don't care, though. Let them think your a creep. It's all the same to you, anyway.

Still, you decide to duck out early (losing two hour pay) and head home, praying to God and Jesus and all of them that no one else will be home.

xXxXx

Steve sees a boy wondering the aisles.

And he _thinks _he might have seen the boy before.

Maybe.

_That kid sure do look familiar _he thinks as he gets ready to head back out to the garage, where another steady line of cars have gathered.

But, then again, he thinks that whenever he sees a kid anywhere these days.

Soda's griping is getting to him, he swears.

xXxXx

I don't move from the spot Steve left me until a girl comes over and starts talking.

"So," she says, snapping at her gum, "you work here?"

Yes, I say. I do work here.

"Saw you talkin' to yer friend over there." She gestures towards the store, where on the other side Steve is, no doubt, expertly spinning his wrench around somebodies' engine and talking to girls just like this one. "He's pretty good with his hands."

Yes, I say. He is.

She looks at me like I'm a nice pair of shoes she wants to try on, and it makes me want to punch her in the face. If I hit girls. "You work with yer hands too?"

Ah, jeez. The double meaning.

"I gotta get back to work," I say and start walking back into the DX shaking my head and trying to shake off the girls gum-smacking.

The air conditioner assaults me like a wave, and I'm momentarily shocked into comprehension.

Shit, I really _do _have to work.

I catch Steve outside hunched over a hood and crookedly smiling at a blond girl twirling her hair between her fingers as I pass the door to the back of the counter. The sky is turning a shade of orange as the day slowly begins to end.

There is no one in the story but a boy in the back looking at some bottles of Coke. He's got brown and blond hair all at once, one fading into the other like a strange sort of rainbow. I'm transfixed by it for a moment.

But then the bell rings, and I turn to the door.

It's another girl, a different girl, also blond, 'cept her roots are coming down part way, real dark and dull. Her cheeks are bright red with blush and her lips are almost the same color.

I'm working now, so I put on some kind of smile and turn to her. "What can I do for you, miss?"

She smiles and gives a loud, cackling giggle. You know, _that _kind.

And then she goes on and on about something I'm not listening to, because the boy starts to slip away out the door and into the sunlight and I see his face and I jump from behind the counter and I follow him.

And he's not three steps out the store before I snatch a hand to his shoulder and _I rekognise him I recognise him I recognise him I--_

And now I see his face for real this time, and I'd know it _anywhere._

"Sonuva_bitch _Ponyboy," I croak.

TBR

**Author's Note: I'm not that retarded, don't worry. The change from first to second to third person was intentional. Don't know why. Thought I'd try it out...**


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: I'm feeling angsty. There really is no further explanation.**

**By the way, I'd REALLY love it if everyone checked out the story on my profile, FANFICTION STREET. It's an open invitation to all fanfiction writers. The premise is simple: what would happen if all your favorite characters lived on one street? Just write a oneshot related to it, DocX me and I'll post it.**

**Cool.**

**Gone Baby Gone**

----chapter four----

_"Save me, I'm lost"_

-Carolina Liar

"...what loneliness is more lonely then distrust_?"-_Goerge Eliot, _Middlemarch_

_Tulsa (now)_

So, I start walking to the door, trying to keep my head low because I _know _that I have to leave before he sees me, but if I leave he probably _will _see me, and I feel a hand clamp down on my shoulder.

And, yeah, I got _scared, _all right?

I mean, what kind of bastard wouldn't be?

Right?

So, I get spun around, real quick, and he's looking _straight at me._

And he recognises me, I can tell. His face gets all stretched out, like he can't tell whether to scream or laugh or cry, like he's trying to do all three at once. His eyes kind of flash, like he's blinking without really blinking, and all I can think is s_hit shit shit shitty shit shit._

"Sonuva_bitch, _Ponyboy," he gasps, and he says my name like it's too long for him to say, like he's sounding it out, and _shit crap Jesus Mary fucking Joseph shit crap fuck fuck FUCK._

And I can feel some people piled by the cars looking at us, staring but trying not to. Not alot, not enough so that it's like a spectical or anything, but enough so that it feels like I'm under a microscope.

I'm thinking, right, maybe I could just be like, all cool, "How's it goin'?" and let him take me back home and I can see the gang again and we can just pretend I was never gone and it'd be _good. _

But _that's _just stupid. Damn stupid.

So, then I start thinking that maybe I can just scream and run. You know, play the whole "stranger danger" card. But that'd be stupid, 'cause then he'd know _for sure _it was me, 'cause that's how he _taught _me to do it. You know?

Besides, since when has screaming and running done me any good?

So, for lack of anything better to do, I just fix an irritated scowl on my face and try to shrug him off. "Hey, man," I say, "back off."

The look on his face, though, that hurts. It just melts like ice cream left out too long. But he doesn't let go. He won't let go, I know. He just won't. I know Sodapop Curtis, I've known him since the day I was born, and I know like I know the sky is blue and the grass is green that _he won't let go._

Unless I make him.

"Ponyboy," he says again, like he's trying out the word on his tongue. "Ponyboy. Jesus, Pony."

I play dumb real good sometimes. "I don't got no Pony, man, but you better get your _fucking _hand off a' me 'fore I slice it off."

He still won't let go of me, if anything his grip only gets tighter. I can see his knuckles getting white.

"Where'd you go, kid?" And he sounds like he's gonna cry. Talking so quietly he could be talking to himself. "God_damnit, _Ponyboy. _Where'd you go?"_

I start to get mad now, just because, _shit, _this shouldn't be happening. 'Cause I should have known how close this was to Darry and Soda and Steve and Johnny and Dally and I should've _known _I shouldn't've gone running around. I should've known, I should've been careful. Jesus.

With a kind of will-power that should be awarded, I flung my arm away so quickly he couldn't even try to hold on to it. "Back _off, _jackass."

And, before he could say anything, I turned and I kept going and going and going and not sure where I was headed since everything was blurred.

xXxXx

Steve straightened and slammed the hood back down. He turned to the guy who owned it with a purposly unimpressed glance. "Should be workin' fine now."

He grunted, and Steve knew any guy who had to bring his car in for someone else to fix wouldn't be too welcoming. He flashed his keys and got into the drivers end. He pulled away from the parking lot and sped off.

There wasn't anybody else in the lot, so Steve started back to the DX.

He saw Soda standing at the entrance with this stricken look on his face. He stared off into the distance.

Steve quirked an eyebrow and waved a hand in front of his friend's face. "Hey? _Hey."_

"Didn't you see him?" Soda wouldn't look at him, just kept looking off the other way. "You saw him, right?"

Steve followed Soda's gaze. "Saw what? Where?"

Suddenly, Soda spun around so wildly he might of smacked Steve in the face if he was a bit closer. The thing, though, is that Soda just _doesn't _get mad like that. The few instances when he really is steam rolling, vein popping mad, the most he'd do is tear you a new one and get over it the next minute.

Now his face was red as a cherry, his teeth clenched and...What? Was his eyes _pink? _Puffy?

"You _had _to see him. He was _right fucking there, _the whole_ goddamn _time," he screamed. "He was _here!"_

Steve backed off slightly. "_Who _was here?"

But before Soda even answers, Steve knows. He can tell, just by the look on his face, who _the fuck _was here. Cause there was only one kid on the fucking planet who could get Sodapop Curtis into such a state.

"Ponyboy," Soda says, "we gotta find Ponyboy."

* * *

**Author's Note: Okay, Steve's POV was kind of crap, but I think I did okay on Pony's. Review please XD**


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: I have gotten a complaint that there's lack of Darry angst, so, since I'm a lady of the people, I shall deliver.**

**Just keep in mind I fully intend to finish this, but more like a side project. I'm working on two AU Twilight fics, and finishing up my other one that's been dragging on waaay to long. I'll update when I can, so sorry if the chapters are far between XD**

Gone Baby Gone

_"And now my life has changed in oh so many ways,  
My independence seems to vanish in the haze."_

--The Beatles

_"Uncertainty is killing me  
And I'm certainly not asleep"_

-The Fray

_darry (then)_

You look at the clock. Pony has not come home yet.

"Darrel?" your mother shouts from across the yard, and you can hear the sound of the clothesline snapping up and down as she pulls down shirts for the night.

You can feel the sinking feeling, the fist in your stomach, deepening and deepening until your skin itches, until your anxiety is so great you feel like running out the door and tearing apart every nice car in town until something is assured to him. Good or bad, something solid. Information. You are a man of logic, of sensibility, and you _need _fact.

You need to know.

"Darry?" your mother calls again, and you can hear the back door clicking open along with the sound of her light, delicate heels on the floor as she approches. "Darry, what---"

She stops short, and you can feel her eyes on you as she looks in through the doorway. Your facing the front door, watching it with a fierce set in your jaw. Your heart is in your throat, because part of you knows something is wrong. Part of you just knows.

"What's wrong?" your mother asks quietly, approaching carefully, as though afraid to break you from a supernatural trance. "Darrel?"

You spare her the grief. "Nothing." You get up and open the door. The sky is a deep, dark blue, and the stars are slowly dotting the horizon. "Be back later."

But the seed is planted, and you hear your mother call after you, "Darry? _Darry?"_

_darry (now)_

The house is empty when you come home.

The mess is as you left it, with shirts and towels and empty bottles littering the carpet. Your too tired to clean it up, to even think about cleaning it up. You remember the days when guys all over would come and sleep on the couch and poach the fridge and throw up in the bathroom. Then things got tense, things got uncomfortable. Guys started camping out other places, word spread around. Soon, the only guys who would step foot in the house was Two-Bit and, with difficulty, Johnny. Steve stayed away from you, afraid your now infamous short fuse would spark the wrong way and you'd slug him (like that last time.) Dally dropped by, on occasion, but only long enough to swipe a free beer or pick up Johnny for God knows what. These days, you spent long hours sitting quietly in your house, staring at the walls, at the TV, the calender, the paper. Never processing any of it, never focusing on anything. Just waiting for Soda to come home, waiting for hunger to kick in, waiting to go to sleep then waiting to wake up. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

And you dare not hope.

You remember a quote from a book you read, back in junior year when things were simple..."_He who has never hoped can never despair"..._You forget who said it...someone named George...

The clock ticks loudly.

It's a lie, that quote. Because you have long stopped hoping, but the despair is still there. It always has been.

_ponyboy (two years ago)_

Ponyboy sat in the car, waiting.

The guy's name was John, as it was. He had relinquished the information hesitantly, acting like Pony was dragging it out of him. To be honest, Pony could care less; he just wanted to get away from this guy. He just wanted to get back home, do his homework and study and never leave the house again like Darry wanted. Shit, he'd do _anything _Darry wanted at this point. He'd clean the toilet. He'd paint the house. He'd build a _new _house, for God's sake.

He wanted to go home.

But he couldn't, not now. The car was locked from the outside and John was in the fast food joint a few feet away. Since he seemed to have a lot of money and no job, Ponyboy assumed this was how he made his wages. Doing what, he didn't know. All he knew was that John would park into remote parking lots, dissapear into a resturant or store for a few minutes, then come out with his pockets bulging and his face blank--

Speaking of the devil.

This time, he had a brown paper bag with him. Pony had lived with his brothers long enough to know what was inside.

The driver's side opened, and in seconds the car was revved silently and pulling out of the parking lot. He turned to Pony, eyeing him suspiciously as he drove.

"'s New Years tomorrow," John grunted, turning a corner.

Pony didn't say anything.

Grinding his teeth, John spun the wheel sharply, nearly crashing them into a street sign.

"What'd you used to do fer New Years?" John said, his voice slightly less harsh but still edging on hysterical rage. Pony didn't remember a time when he _wasn't _angry beyond all reason.

Pony didn't say anything. In fact, he hadn't spoken a word in nearly two weeks, partly enjoying the frustration this caused John, partly out of a stubborn resolve not to give the man any leverage over him. He was worried, though, when another harsh spin of the wheel caused the bumper to bounce off a curb, dangerously shaking the foundation of the station wagon. While he didn't completely stop driving, he made it known he was fully prepared to crash the car into the next passing building if need be.

"Answer me," he hissed through clenched teeth. His eyes were wild again, flashing and twitching like there was a bug caught in his eyelashes.

Ponyboy looked forward, clutching his seat-belt for dear life and barely managing to choke out his reply. "We--_shit--_we...my brothers would get champagne and--_fuck--_let me have some and---" The car swerved another corner, and Pony's head went sailing into the window so hard his ears rang and sparks danced along his vision.

Finally, the car stopped. Didn't park, didn't slow down. Just stopped, in the middle of the road, like he was the only one on it and there weren't another fifty honking their damn horns behind them. Several started maneuvering around them.

This guy is crazy this guy is crazy this guy is _out of his mind batshit insane!_

Pony breathed heavily, his head throbbing.

John turned to him again, his face once again an unreadable mask. He gestured to the paper bag, sitting between their two seats, toppled over from the impact. "Open it."

Pony picked it up gingerly, sliding the bottle from the bag and glancing at the label. Whiskey.

"Drink it."

He didn't say it sinisterly, didn't say it like one of those _eeeeevvviiiillll _bad guys on cartoons. Didn't have malice in his voice, didn't have that sadistic glint in his eye. He just said it, like a parent would tell their kid to clean their room. It was hard to believe only seconds before John had been trying to run the car into a steaming pile of cement and metal. The constant mood swings reminded Pony of his mother, during what Darry called, 'that time of the month'. Pony still didn't know what that meant.

John's eyes squinted dangerously. "Don't fuck with me, kid."

Glancing at John's hands glued to the wheel, his knuckles white, Pony hesitantly twisted the cap. He look once again at John. "Why?"

Starting up the car and letting the mid-day traffic flow once more, he barked an amused chuckle. "You look like you need it."

And, Pony thought as he let the whiskey trail down his throat, he really did need it.

_ponyboy (now)_

Damnit. Damnit all to hell.

How fucking _stupid _can one person be?

I stopped running hours ago, now moving at a brisk pace, veering dangerously close to the Soc part of town. I could already spot the tell-tale sign of Greaser hunting, spotting expensive looking booze bottles on the street. The sky was a navy blue color, noon quickly approaching as the air stiffened and the humidity set in. I longed for the air conditioning of the DX.

And I kept seeing Soda's face.

What if he told someone? Darry? Mom or Dad? The police? What if he went on a rabid search of Tulsa? What if he ran into John? What if John had his gun? What if John was sober enough to use it? I wonder if Soda'd care enough to go looking, anyway. I mean, fuck, I know Soda's my brother, I know I'm being stupid to think they _didn't _look for me, but what if he already gave up? What if he got tired of looking and just got over it? He'd probably go home tonight and go right to bed and not even think about me--

But, Lordy, he looks just like Mom.

I start thinking about everyone--the gang, the Sheppards, Mom, Dad, Darry, Johnny. I start wondering what everyone looks like. I wonder if Dally landed himself in jail again? Maybe even Steve, maybe--as laughable as the thought is--Johnny. I wonder what happened to our neighbor with the dog that kept biting Steve's leg every time he got near. I start wondering about all my old school friends and what there doing and--

Are they thinking about me like I'm thinking about them?

A pair of headlights hit me like a tidal wave, blinding me so much I'm afraid to move without falling over myself. For a second I think it's John. For a second, before I see the well-tanned faces and the Letterman jacket sleeves.

"Hey, grease!" one of the guys in the car shouts, and I feel the splash of beer whip my cheek. The smell, as always, is nauseating. The car doors slam, and the whooping laughter of three or four Socs cut through the silence like a butcher knife.

I wish I carried a blade...or a gun...or something. I feel like I'm walking around a battlefield in my underwear, now that I realize how stupid it was to go running around dressed like a greaser this close to the nice part of town. Another one to add to the list.

I can only see their outlines and, yeah, they look pretty scary. Big shoulders, swaggering stances, bottles and switchblades at hand. I pray that the bulk in their arms is only from their jackets.

"Lookit here, fellas," one barks, the one in front, getting close enough for me to see. "Another _greaser_. Hey, _greaser, _didn't yer mommy never tell you not to go walking in the middle of the night?"

I wanted to tell him that, _you fucking idiot, _the sun wasn't even fully down yet. But I didn't, didn't say anything. Years of living with John taught me you keep your mouth shut when someone bigger then you's got a knife and more then a few shots in them.

I started to back off, real slow, hoping to get out of their reach before they could notice, then bolt the other direction. But, in less then a second, two pairs of meaty hands were clamped around my forearms and dragging me foreword so hard I stumbled to my knees. The smell of alochal was suffocating, the beer now sticky on my face. I thrashed wildly in their grip, trying to get my feet out from under me so I could kick them, push them away, do _something. _My heart beat like a racket ball in my chest, so hard I was afraid it'd bounce out and fly off like a bird.

I backhanded one, inadvertibly, in the jaw, earning myself a good slug to the gut. I doubled over as they pushed me to the ground, pinning me down and digging their knees into my sides to keep me still. I didn't scream so much as grunt as they conversed among themselves about my fate. It was a sophisticated type of conversation, that went something like this:

"Fuck, man, let's fucking strip 'em and tie him to a fucking street sign!"

"_Shit, _how much you been smokin', Davey?"

"Hell, the kid fucking _hit _me."

One of them, I'm assuming the leader, since he seemed the most sober of the bunch, shushed them like a teacher repriming noisy first graders. I saw through the glare of their car's headlights his face, broad and angular and relatively forgettable. He had this mean sort of look about him, the kind of look that suggested he didn't have real good days, just 'life-sucks-but-I-ain't-gonna-knife-anyone-over-it' days. One of those guys who was pissed about everything. He had a cold, calculating glint in his icy blue eyes.

"Wait--hey, _shut up--_I don't think this kid's from around here," he said.

The other ones laughed loudly, though I had no clue what was so funny.

"Hey, I'm fucking serious," the guy said, his blade flashing in the lights, so close to my face I could've smelled it. "What greaser in his right brain would go running around here by himself?" He looked away from his friends, leaning in closer, setting his blade on my cheek like my skin was a coaster and the knife was a glass of milk. All casual. "What're you doing here, kid?" he crooned, his breath smelling like all sorts of liquor. "On vacation?"

I don't know why (other then the obvious), but this guy irked me the wrong way. I breathed in, slowly, and spat at him right in the eye. He bellowed a string of curses that were so colorful I had a feeling even Dallas Winston would blush. "You're gonna regret that, you little _shit."_

The blade cut deeper into my cheek, and I felt the warmness drip down my cheek like some kind of bloody tear. I gasped, meakly pushing up against the guys' hold only to feel a sting as the knife just dug deeper into my skin. I considered screaming, but found no point in it. In this part of town, it would only attract more Socs.

I couldn't remember the last time I screamed, in fact.

Suddenly, the sound of tires screeching and a gun firing made me and the rest of the Socs jump out of our skins. I could only see another glaring pair of headlights and a pair of boots crunching on the sidewalk. I heard a horribly familiar voice growl something, something like a threat, and more gunshots. I knew it wasn't any other Socs. _Socs don't pull guns._

Finally, the guys started running, the sound of footsteps disappearing. Tires rolled in the distance, and all was silent.

I looked up to see John, his scowl feircer then anything I'd ever seen, his eyes crazed and hungry and wild, like a lion or something. A gun was raised towards the direction the Socs car was, smoke still floating from the barrel. He spoke in a growl.

"Your in _big _trouble, kid."

_sodapop (now)_

"What the fuck're you _talking _about, man?"

Steve was driving slowly down the road as the sun disappeared behind the skyline and the world was plunged into noontime darkness. Soda stared grimly out the window, his head throbbing. "I thought you saw him," he whispered, for the tenth time that car ride. "You saw him...God, I'm not _fucking_ crazy, Steve."

Steve turned the wheel gently down a corner, the best he's driven since he got his license. "I _know_you ain't crazy. But, Christ, Soda, you gotta work with me here." He glanced at his friend, bent over his seat, his eyes deep set and hallow. "What're you going on about?"

Soda's hands flew out and smashed into the dashboard, shaking the car. "Goddamnit, _I saw him, Steve! _Ponyboy--he was _there. _Walkin' outta the DX with some fucked up hair and--and--and--_fuck _Steve."

"Hey, hey," Steve said, straightening the car as it swerved on the impact, "easy on the equipment. I just fixed 'er up since your last episode."

Soda's muscles spasmed, like he wanted to hit something. Why wouldn't he _listen?_

He knew what he saw, even as the car ride continued with Steve trying to convince him how fucked up crazy he was, how crazy he was being. He knew he wasn't crazy, he knew what he saw, and hell if he was gonna let that kid slip away.

Not again.

_TBC_


	6. AN

Hey, guys. Sorry I haven't updated anything in...well, in a while. I've taken a break from writing for a while. I'm starting my freshman year of high school this year, and I really need to get my shit together. This is gonna be mass-posted, so I'll post my individual messages for each story:

The Unfortunate Truth: I started this when I was twelve, so needless to say I've grown a bit since then. I do have the entire things plotted out in my head, and one day I do intend to finish, but for now consider this on indefinite hold.

Gone Baby Gone: This one I actually almost finished with. I typed most of it on my friend's computer, so it might take a while to get to it...but still. I'll get there.

It's Kind of a Funny Story: I feel really guilty about this one, because I promised myself I'd finish it...Anyway. I'll probably finish this during my next fanfiction binge.

Invasion: I SHOULD BE DOING THIS! This was meant as a comic relief, something to do when I'm bored...I'm bored SO OFTEN! I SHOULD WORK ON THIS! Feel free to cyber-smack me.

Soliloquy: I seriously wrote all the stories for this but, again, on friend's computer.

Playing With Fire: Consider this one up for adoption.

Remaining: Will finish during next binge. I actually like this one.

A Comedy of Errors: No one seems to care much for this one, so consider it dropped till further notice.

The Awkward Kind: Not feeling this one, I have to say. I pictured in my head a John Hughes like angsty romance with a tragic end, but, well...I'm not John Hughes.

No Such Things: This is completly out of my comfort zone and I have no idea why I started it. Up for adoption.

Also, I have a few stories in the works...all Twilight, aparently. Two are AU and one's a three-shot for New Moon. Again, I consider fanfiction like drinking: if your not addicted, you only do it when your unhappy. I am not addicted, and I'm pretty content at the moment. As you all know, I tend to have time periods where I update at a ridiculous pace, and then long stretches of time where I do nothing. Rest assured, however, I will not be content forever and as soon as I'm engulfed in an overwhelming wave of depression, most of these stories will be updated, if not finished. And I will post the new stories I have for Twilight. And we will all live happily every after.

The End


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